


Not By Faith, Alone

by LadyFangs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Development, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-06-03 01:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19453591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: Based on Game of Thrones, Seasons 1-8.Jorah once told Daenerys no one could get through this life alone. Their lives are a testament to that saying.An examination of their relationship told one story at a time.(A/N): I have no idea where this is going. Rating is likely to change and additional characters added.





	1. The Manifestation of Things Hoped For

Hope is a fleeting thing and faith is fickle. It is a truth accepted by those of Bear Island.

The air is dry and chilled, the snows but dust upon the heavy trees and tall cliffs that stretch to the skies over the island. A long inhale, followed by an even longer release, the breath a puff of white against a stark blue sky. It is quiet now, save for the wind that whistles around him. Jeor Mormont feels the age creeping into his bones, his body weathered and scarred by experience and war. There are more days behind him than before. But as he stands outside the great hall of his ancestors, overlooking the vista, he wonders what will come of his island home once he is gone.

Their numbers are few these days.

Mage, his beloved sister, and her daughters are more than capable but the male line will probably end with him.

A sharp cry pierces his quiet contemplation. A woman moans, her labor muted through the heavy wooden doors that keep out the cold, and other things. Jeor winces at the sound, as plaintive as his own heart.

He grieves to know he is once again the cause of her pain.

Fifteen years of marriage and four failures was too much for either of them to take and they had stopped trying long ago, coming to accept that it was not to be, for them. Mage had her daughters. The island would have its caretakers. And the great bear knew with surety he would be the last Lord of Bear Island.

This latest was… unexpected. And Hope and Faith, while both fleeting and fickle, are hard habits to break.

His wife’s moans grow louder, and he wishes to go immediately to her. But the master and midwife have locked him out of his own hall, until…

Until what? He wonders, beginning to pace, leaving footprints in the snow, until there is no white, but the brown of the earth underfoot.

Jeor Mormont is not a praying man. His prayers have never been answered, so why would they be, now? Why them? Why put her through so much only too—

Suddenly, she makes a sound he’s never heard, and Jeor’s heart jumps into his mouth. It is a sound so primal that the maester's warning be damned…

The doors to the hall open with a boom that echoes through the building and he moves quickly, taking the stairs two-by-two to run to her, bursting into their shared chambers, because he cannot and will not stand by as his wife---

As his wife…

Words fail him.

From the bed there comes another cry, small and weak… hesitant at first then growing stronger. Jeor’s presence has drawn the attention of the midwife, and the maester. But they do not chastise their lord. Instead, they move aside, and the maester, seeing the shock on his master’s face, comes to stand by Jeor, and takes his arm, bringing him to the side of the bed.

Her slim, round face looks up at him with watery eyes, her hair sticking to her from the sweat, and gives him a small smile. In her arms is something he thought he’d never see. A dream once gave up on.

They were too old. Too many failures. Too many prayers unanswered. And yet, in her arms is the most beautiful child Jeor has ever seen.

Pink and pinched face, tiny arms clenched into tight fists, skin as soft as the dew of morning… is a son.

Their son.

His son.

The heir of Bear Island.

“His name is Jorah,” his wife whispers. “Would you like to hold him?”

Jeor knows he will want to hold Jorah forever.


	2. To Put Away Childish Things

Jeor Mormont is not a talkative man. It is not their way.

Even still his eyes shine as he watches his son take his first few, wobbly steps. The movements are jerky, as Jorah struggles to get himself up, continuously pulling on a leg of a chair and repeatedly falling backward with a look of puzzlement.

He can see those big blue eyes studying the furniture, can almost see Jorah’s young mind working. Jeor watches as his babe raises one chubby hand to grab ahold of the leg of the chair and the other reach for the seat. The boy gets his feet under his legs and pushes up again, wobbling at first, but with a resolve that belies his eight months.

“It is early,” the maester remarks, standing next to his Lord, the two men watching quietly.

“Not too early,” Jeor remarks, his voice low, but filled with warmth and pride. Jorah turns at the sound of his father’s voice and breaks out into a smile, the first few teeth have already broken through.

Father cannot help but offer a smile and bend down until he’s at his son’s level, arms outstretched, beckoning for Jorah to come.

For a moment, Jorah’s smile fades and he looks unsure, his gaze going from the security of the chair in his hold to his father. The distance between the two is vast in the mind of a babe.

“Come, my cub.”

A gentle coaxing.

Jorah releases one hand, still clinging to the leg of the chair with the other.

“Come.”

One shaky step.

Then two.

The second little hand finally releases its grip and Jorah have wobbles, half-stumbles straight into his father’s arms.

Jeor scoops him up and hoists him high in the air, to the sound of high-pitched giggles.

The maester frowns.

“You spoil him,” he says, looking on, but not displeased.

“He is but a child,” the maester of the hall retorts. “This life will be hard enough as is. Eventually, there will come a time for him to put away childish things. But now is not that time.”

.

.

It comes when Jorah is eight. When illness strikes Bear Island and takes with it Jeor’s beloved wife, Jorah’s adored mother. It steals her in the night, swiftly and silently, killing not only her but a part of Jeor.

Jorah stands quietly by his father as the master lights the funeral pyre with his mother on it. He stares into the flames, trying his best to not cry. His father is not crying. And his father is the strongest man Jorah knows.

The flames burn hot, hotter than any fire he’s ever felt, hotter than the sun on the hottest day of the year, hotter than…

They jump and lick and lap at his mother’s feet, like the ocean against the hull of the ship. He watches until it is too bright, too intense, too hot… his father’s hand is tight around his own, and Jorah turns away into Jeor’s side right as the flame catches his mother’s dress, and she begins to glow.

Feeling the sudden movement, Jeor looks down at the red-gold head of his boy, and wordlessly sweeps him up, allowing the child to bury his face in his neck. He can feel the wetness, on his skin, the clench of Jorah’s fists, and he rubs his back with calming circles, before lowering his face, allowing his tears to fall.

It is the first time Jorah sees his father cry. It is the only time he will see his father cry. But it will not be the last time for Jeor Mormont.

.

.

“It is time.”

Everything he’s learned, he’s learned from his father. Jeor has instilled a sense of duty and honor in his son. Jorah knows his obligations. And so he takes a Glover girl as his wife.

Fidelity.

Integrity.

Responsibility.

“You are a man, now,” Jeor had told him, before handing his sword, Longclaw, over to his son. “Bear Island is now in your trust.”

“How can I be Lord when you yet live?” He was still young, not fully understanding what his father was trying to say, blinking in confusion as he held the Valerian steel in his hand. It was heavier than his own, the pommel carved into the head of a snarling bear, the white ivory smoothed with age. Jorah switched it to one hand, moving it with his arm in slow motion to get a feel. His father had trained him with this sword but never allowed him to wield it until now.

Jeor watches his son with tired eyes. His body is aching, the years have finally settled themselves into his bones. He was old 18 years ago when Jorah made his way into the world, yet it feels like just yesterday. He wishes there was more time. But it is not their way to dwell on wants and wishes.

He’s done his job. He has raised a boy to a man.

“I am going to the wall,” he tells Jorah. “Now, here, you stand.”

“Here I stand,” Jorah repeats softly, before embracing his father in a tight, short hug.

He watches as the old man turns away from the great hall, climbs his horse, and gallops away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited because word insists on changing "maester" to "master".  
> Also, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review! I try hard to not respond to every single comment because those responses inflate review counts, but I am reading them and am very grateful. It's my first GOT/ASOIAF story and I am writing it based completely off the show (I've never read the books).


	3. Sins Like Scarlet

They try.

But Jorah is deeply unhappy, and his discontent grows as the years go by. She is a Glover. They raised her to be some Lord’s lady. She tries her best to please her husband. The problem is, Jorah does not know what he wants or if he does, he will never disrespect her by giving it voice. 

The women of Bear Island are different. They are stronger. Independent. Jorah is unaccustomed to his wife’s…compliance.   
She is a dutiful wife. He is a dutiful husband, but he is not loyal, though he tries to be discreet. 

They’re able to move past the first miscarriage. After all, most children do not make it and they know that survival is not guaranteed.

The second loss is harder, and he consoles her as best he can, as she cries into his arms. They were so close, he thinks later, as he buries the small bundle in the earth, preferring to do it himself as penance for his transgressions. 

He promises the Old Gods that he will be a better husband. That he will return to his duty. That he will no longer forsake his wife and recommit to her.

And he holds fast to that promise. But their foundations were shaky. And he knows, even as he tries harder, for her sake, that he will never love her, nor she, him.

It is duty that keeps their marriage together. He has made a vow, one he believes only death can break.

When she dies three years later in labor, Jorah’s head and heart are heavy. 

He was not a good husband, but he tried to be dutiful. She was not a good wife, but she was loyal and deserved better. 

Jorah Mormont stands to the side as the master lights her funeral pyre, their stillborn son beside her, he wishes he felt more.

“She was a good woman,” the maester tells him, mistaking Jorah’s silence for grief.

“She was,” he returns, stricken with guilt, praying for absolution.

Later, a raven comes with a message.

The Starks have called up their bannermen.

Jorah feels his hands tingle, an itch that refuses to be soothed with anything but a sword.

Longclaw is heavy in his hand. His guilt weighs on his heart and his mind. He must prove himself worthy of his house. Prove himself worthy of his father.

The Mormonts are sworn to House Stark.

Here, they stand. But to Westeros, they will ride.


	4. The Old Order Of Things Has Passed Away

The bright rip across the sky is preceded by an accompanying boom and causes the foundations of Dragonstone to quake. The centuries-old structure groans in reply, so loud it nearly conceals the anguished cries from inside.

But not quite.

Handmaidens move quickly in silent worry, bringing fresh linens, removing stained red ones; the little boy sits quietly in a corner, legs drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around himself — he goes unnoticed at the moment's panic.

Another sharp boom and the queen wails, her cries make the small boy quiver, and he squeezes his eyes shut and places his hands over his ears. No one has come to him in hours. This place is cold and unfamiliar, and it is only him, his mother and Ser Darry, except Ser Darry is not here and his mother… his mother…

Another scream, and then silence.

The thunder has stopped, but the rain remains a harsh whisper, not quite words but something other. Like fingernails clawing at stone.

Slowly, he removes his hands from his ears and stands, straining to hear.

It's faint at first, but he catches it, a tiny, weak cry. 

The hastening tap-tap-tap of footsteps on the stone floor draws his attention and Viserys looks up to see the shining armor, flowing white cape, and worn face of Ser Darry. The knight's hair is gray-white, eyes a soft brown yet there's a look in his eyes Viserys doesn't understand. 

The knight says nothing; his eyes are tinged red though as he extends a large, calloused-yet-soft hand to the little prince.

"Come," he says.

They go. The handmaids line the walls, hands clasped in front of them, heads bowed. It is unnaturally quiet save for the wails of the rain. Ser Darry guides the boy into the room. It is bare except for the large bed in the middle.

His mother looks so small, he thinks. 

She turns her head and looks upon him with tired eyes and a wan smile. "Come," she says and pats the space beside her. He breaks Ser Darry’s grip on his hand and scrambles up into the bed beside her and peers up to see what’s in her arms. 

There.

A waif of a thing. Scrawny, the tuft of white-blond suckling at his mother's breast.

"She's ugly." He says, but there's no malice in it. He thinks the baby looks like a naked bird—all limbs and the head too big. His mother laughs weakly and winces a bit. Ser Darry chuckles, the sound is raspy and unfamiliar in his throat. 

"She will be beautiful," the queen says. "As you are. And both of you will inherit the earth. It is your birthright."

His birthright. Viserys doesn't know what that means.

He watches as his mother’s eyes slide closed.   
He watches as her breathing slows.

Ser Darry’s eyes are still red as he hastily comes to Viserys’ side.

“Come, my little prince. Your mother is tired and must rest.”

The baby cries, and a handmaiden comes to retrieve her.

In the night, he hears the clamor of feet and armor, of shouting and the wailing of women. This time, Viserys does not cover his ears. He feels his body grow cold with the sudden knowledge of what has happened. His chest feels as if a great weight has settled upon it. 

He knows without having been told. 

And when Ser Darry comes again, the small boy looks at the older man and says flatly, “Mother is dead.”

The old knight stands before a young king, silent, with tears streaming down his face.

Viserys does not cry. He will never share it. He will keep what’s left of her to himself. Grief and all. 

They flee Dragonstone in the dead of night—Ser Darry, carrying a tiny Daenerys in the crook of his arm, and Viserys, clutching his hand tightly.

As the ship carries them away from the castle, Viserys looks for the last time upon the dark stone walls. 

“You will go home again, my prince,” Ser Darry says, coming to stand beside him on the deck. Daenerys is asleep in his arms. Viserys looks upon the child in contemplation. Seeing it, Ser Darry kneels down and extends the sleeping child to her brother.

“It’s her fault,” he says, quietly. “If she weren’t here, mother would still be.”

A look passes quickly in Ser Darry’s face as he takes the child back and clutches her close to his chest.

“You mustn’t speak like that.” He tells the boy, forgetting titles. Titles will not help them here—not where they are going. She is your sister. Your family.” The only family left to you now,” the old knight thinks sadly, to himself. He remembers the old times, the time before Daenerys and Viserys, before Rhaegar even, when they were young, and… for a moment—happy. Or rather, he had been happy. Or what could have passed for it. When he loved a beautiful woman, who would later become a beautiful queen… and a mother… of children not his… and yet…

Ser Darry looks into the sleeping face of the baby girl…her brother no higher than his knees, standing beside him, staring out at the ocean, as the castle becomes little more than a speck on a wide sea of Sargasso. 

He loves these children as if they were his own. They were born of the woman he loved and he has made a promise, one he will keep until breath leaves him, his body no longer obeys his will, and his mind betrays his conscious thoughts.

He is an old knight. But he is loyal.

“You will reclaim your throne again,” he says, unaware he is speaking out loud, unsure of whether he is addressing the boy or the girl, both, or neither.


End file.
